


jukebox and a pocketful of change

by ProfMyrtle



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Nonverbal Communication, Other, Post-Canon, headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:42:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfMyrtle/pseuds/ProfMyrtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grillby's is a place where the jukebox's is broken and the main ingredient in everything is grease, but it's also full of love, friends, and learning new things every time you come in. So, feel free to pull up a chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	jukebox and a pocketful of change

**Author's Note:**

> For the Undertale Secret Santa, this is for NekoChan700! I hope you enjoy!! <3
> 
> I have a million and one little notes about this fic, but I'll spare you. :3 Ask if you want; I have quite a few headcanons about post-canon Undertale.

Frisk can just picture the look on Toriel’s face if she knew where they were right now; nose scrunched up, her small fangs digging into the hard line of her mouth, and the slight narrowing of her eyes. She’s every bit the nagging mother they call her, although Papyrus always insists he is the better mother, and both have a very strong opinion about Grillby’s.

Not as a person, mind. Just with the food he serves. It’s a frequent topic of fake brotherly arguments, even as recent as today.

 

 

“You let ‘em eat Glamburgers,” Sans says from his designated spot on the couch, so overused by him that he sinks into the small crater a little. Frisk is on the other end of the couch, lying on their stomach, trying to quell a small ball of anxiety forming in their stomach by watching a rerun of Mettaton’s show. They never liked arguments, even if they were good natured and not ugly. “What’s the difference?”

Papyrus is usually one to watch any of Mettaton’s shows with rapt attention, regardless of if it was a rerun, but he had recently taken up private knitting lessons from Toriel, and was determined to knit Frisk a new wardrobe before winter settled in. At his brother’s question, however, Papyrus stops what he’s doing and narrows his eye sockets somehow. “You know what the difference is,” he says. “Glamburgers are made of glitter and sequins, not grease!”

Sans just shrugs. “Neither of those sound too good for you, bro.”

“Yes. Well. Grease is very bad for humans. It clogs up their… arteries?” Frisk could tell he’s looking to them for confirmation, and they at least sit up and give him a nod. “Yes, arteries! Whatever those are supposed to be. And not to mention, the grease just isn’t the worst part, you see! Some _other_ brands have MGS in them, which is very, very bad.”

“MGS?”

“Yes, it stands for,” and here, Papyrus pauses dramatically, as though he’s about to share something extra top secret, “Metal Gear Solid. Which is some kind of weapon, I think? Certainly not something fit for consumption, much less a healthy diet.”

 _Actually,_ Frisk puts their index to their lips, then points forward, and slowly signs the correct acronym. _It’s M-S-G._ They frown a little, not sure how to sign monosodium glutamate, and think it would take too long to spell it out. They decide to table the matter for now, since it’d just end up making things confusing. _You are right that it is bad, Papyrus._ They look at Sans, and can’t help but want to throw him a bone. _But Sans is right about the glitter._

Papyrus frowns at this news. “What’s wrong with it? It’s glamorous, just like Mettaton. And sparkly. And looks very fibrous, which is good for your digestion!”

“You know it’s not real glitter, right, bro?”

“WHAT.” Papyrus looks between them both of them wildly, desperate and looking betrayed. Frisk just nods, and his perpetual skeleton smile seems to deflate. “What… what is it really, then? It’s not… Metal Gear, is it?”

 _Sugar. I think you’re supposed to put it on cakes for decoration, not burgers._ Frankly, they never liked Glamburgers. By the time they had unwrapped them back then, most of the glitter and sequins had dissolved into the fake-meat and bun, and biting down had tasted like a watery sugar cube. No wonder that one had been in the trash. The reason Papyrus only ever “let” them eat Glamburgers was when they were buying them for Alphys when she was having a bad brain day and wanted something gross and indulgent. Frisk didn’t judge, but still; they had sworn off the things.

“Well,” is all Papyrus can say at first, and ends up knitting again with a fervor, concentration almost cracking a line in his skull. “Well, clearly the answer is you both need to stop eating out and more at home. There’s certainly nothing bad like that in _my_ food, especially my spaghetti,” Papyrus all but declares, except he does since his volume is always turned up to 10.

After a beat, he does amend his statement some. “Although, there’s nothing bad in Toriel’s cooking, either… and of course, I learned all my culinary skills from Undyne, so hers is doubly good for you! So there you have it, plenty of options! Nyeh heh heh!”

Papyrus sounds rather proud of himself, and Sans just chuckles and says, “We sure do, bro.” Frisk notices, however, that Sans gives them a lazy, could-be-he’s-just-actually-blinking wink with his opened eye, and they know they’ll probably sneak off to Grillby’s sometime later.

 

Seated in their favorite barstool, after routinely checking for whoopee cushions, is one of Frisk’s favorite places to be. It’s almost as good as waking up in Toriel’s house—their home—to a slice of last night’s pie, which is always better cold. Only here there’s fries in front of them, which they try to scarf down while they’re hot. They never have been able to eat a combo yet; their stomach never could handle eating so much food. But one day, maybe.

Sans is drinking ketchup straight from the bottle, like always, and he’s finishing it quicker than usual. “Lemme have another bottle, Grillby,” he says. “But none of that Heinz stuff.”

Grillby looks at him, unreadable as always, and says nothing. From a nearby barstool, Red Bird lazily offers a translation: “He keeps it for the other costumers; the paying kind. Mostly the dog’s, though. Must be the brand name.” As they finish, Grillby’s slides a bottle across the bar, and Frisk sees the label _Trader Joe’s_ as it sails by. “…But he always looks out for a regular.”

“Hey, I pay my tab,” Sans says, popping off the cap. “He knows I’ll… _ketchup_ eventually.”

Frisk makes a low humming sound, a kind of groan, as everyone else in the bar roars with laughter.

“Hey, Grillby!” Ugly Fish says when the noise dies down. “Tell us that kid of yours is doing. I hardly hear about her. Probably grown into a fine monster, huh?” Something in the way they say that makes Grillby slow in cleaning the counter.

Frisk cocks their head quizzically and looks at Sans. _Daughter?_ They sign. He nods, but before he can explain, if he plans to at all, Red Bird is at the ready.

“You know how it is, when you’re separated. Spouse says, oh, growing up in Snowdin is no place for a growing monster; how can she blossom in a place so _damp?_ Go to the schools in Hotland. She’ll learn a trade, something useful. Puzzle making.” Red Bird’s voice is cracked and wet, like they’ve got a perpetual cold or smoked a lot, just like some people Frisk knows from Before. They know that isn’t the case, however. Monsters never took to smoking, unless they were fire-based, and then it was natural and not harmful.

“City girl, huh?” That makes Punk Hamster perk up. “Might’ve been nice to see her out here. Never did get to see any outsiders fall on their—ah, not that I’d want to see that with your kid, Grillby,” he’s quick to amend that, throwing up his hands non-threateningly. “Any kid of yours is an honorary citizen of Snowdin, of course.”

“Nice save,” laughs Red Bird. “Anyway, she’s following in her pop’s footsteps. Kind of. New cook at one of MTT’s bigger chains.”

 _Is that true?_ Frisk signs to Sans again.

Sans seems as amused as he ever is, his constant grin never wavering. He turns one socket to Frisk, and half-shrugs. “Why don’t you ask ‘im?”

Frisk makes a huffing noise. Verbal communication has never been their strong point, and even if most monsters have picked up sign language for their benefit, there are some that they’ve never tried it with. Not out of fear, mind, just that it had never came up and when it did it usually meant one of their friends had to translate for them anyway.

They get the feeling Grillby is in the same boat, to be honest; they’ve only ever heard him talk _once_ in the past few years. And it was just a quiet ‘good job’, a whispered crackle of lit coal on the floor, dying quickly in the exposed air.

Still, they might as well make an attempt. _Is it true?_ They sign to Grillby, after catching his attention. _You have a daughter?_

Grillby stills, which is amazing for a monster that’s constantly on fire. He seems to regard Frisk, trying to weigh or understand something, Frisk doesn’t know. Just when they’re about to poke Sans to do the talking, Grillby’s hands abandon his work, and begin to sign something back. It’s elegant, the way his burning hands work, almost too fast for Frisk to understand them. They seamlessly flow from one word to the next, like a dance. _Yes. Although Red Bird tends to embellish my affairs a little._

Red Bird sits up a little straighter, and so does everyone else except Sans, of course. “Hey, that’s new. Never saw Grillby do that before.”

“Looks like a sign you’ll be out of a job soon.” Even as the noise level of the bar rises again, Frisk manages to ignore it somehow. They’re too enrapt by this new discovery.

 _What else is true?_ Frisk’s knowledge of Grillby is only made up of a few concrete facts, mostly grounded only in that he owned a bar and is made of fire.

Grillby pauses, almost considering again, although Frisk isn’t sure why. Maybe he’s just careful with his words, or maybe he’s trying to be considerate for their sake, something that most adult humans were for mostly silly reasons. Monsters aren’t. They’re honest about most things, good or gross. _I’ve never been married._ He responds at last. _It was my daughter’s insistence that she go to school elsewhere. For welding and working on the Core. Still plans to, although with human’s technology._

 _She’s a good student,_ he goes on. _Always punctual._

Oh! Frisk kicks their feet together excitedly. They try to sign as quick as they can, combining two words together, their left shaking their index while the other hand waggles their fingers. _Green fire?_

 _You’ve met?_ Grillby asks.

 _Yes!_ A long time ago, admittedly, and only in passing through the Core. _She’s really pretty._

 _Thank you._ Grillby seems pleased, even if it’s hard to tell from his practically non-existent face.

“So, uh, Sans,” says Big Mouth from his booth. “Think you could play translator to our new translator?” Red Bird makes a disgruntled squawk, but otherwise seems undisturbed.

“What’s stopping you from learning a second language?” Sans sounds almost serious, which makes a few monsters in the bar look at him. But he’s still smiling, finishing up his second bottle of ketchup, not a bone out of place. “Sounds like work to me, and while I wouldn’t mind another job for more break time, I’m just not up to silencing our original translator here,” he says, winking.

“Thanks, Sans,” Red Bird says.

“No prob.”

 _Do you…_ Frisk’s hands shake ever so slightly, like rustling leaves. _Do you think we could talk again? More often, maybe? I never… I don’t get to talk to most like this._

Grillby’s fiery head tilts, quizzical. _Why not, if I may ask?_ When Frisk doesn’t do anything except clutch the edge of their barstool with white knuckles, he’s quick to take back the question. _I apologize. You don’t need to answer._ Frisk shakes their head.

 _Most people don’t understand. Think I’m weird. Stupid. Doing it because I’m rebelling._ It feels like the fries in their stomach are protesting; maybe Papyrus is right about grease. They start to feel guilty, bringing up the baggage from Before, because they’re so much better about moving past that. But it still haunts them in little ways, mostly in being the ambassador, but they can keep going for everyone’s sake even when the whole world is ugly.  Because that’s what they do, because they’re just determined like that.

They’re brought out of their own world by a warm hand on their hair.

Frisk blinks, looking up to see it’s Grillby. They can only stare, the whole bar watching (Sans especially; his socket has the faintest glowing hue to it, but it fades quickly), at this gesture.

Grillby always seems like just the monster behind the bar, serving food and drink, polishing the counter and being so ambiguous he left his words up to others. And yet, here he is, talking to Frisk when he so rarely does that to anyone and even reaching across an unspoken barrier.

Frisk is awed, enough that they don’t even jerk away like they normally would from a stranger’s touch.

Grillby pulls away after a moment, but the warmth lingers on Frisk’s head, like a halo. It’s odd, how being touched by a fire monster doesn’t hurt at all. It’s as harmless as watching clouds at noon. _My apologies, again, for overstepping boundaries._

 _However, you are none of those things. But even if you were, you would still be loved, Frisk._ When he signs their name, he does it special, patting down the area where his heart might be. Frisk’s chest feels tight, but in a good way, like there’s just so much love and happiness and gratitude buried in their ribs.

It’s like all the dark spots in their head and heart turn to sunlight, if only for a moment.

 

 

“Well, I had a good time,” Sans says on their way home, just as the first snow of late fall starts. “How ‘bout you, kiddo?”

Frisk sighs and watches the condensation in the air, catching snowflakes on their thick lashes. _I had fun,_ they sign back. They button the topmost part of their coat. It’s getting very cold. _We better hurry back before Papyrus worries._

Sabs trails behind, not minding being left behind as they enjoy the snow. “Yeah, he’s gonna be extra cranky if he doesn’t get his bedtime story _and_ he figures out where we’ve been.”

Frisk considers that possibility. _He probably will. Sometimes I think he can smell Grillby’s on us._

Sans chuckles. “It’s a pretty concave fact skeletons don’t have noses, kid.”

Frisk doesn’t even have to sign. They just hum and give a disapproving look. They’re all but channeling Papyrus. _Not your best one._

“Hey, they can’t all be winners.”


End file.
